"Do you remember when- when I said-" Leon's teeth are chattering. "When I told you about my brother?"

His fever flared up with a vengeance around midnight. The penicillin isn't working anymore. They are to amputate the leg wounded in the car wreck in an hour, but the surgeon still isn't sure about the other one with the infected shrapnel wound. He said it may heal yet.

Leon doesn't know about the surgery, he is already so weak from the original infection. I assured the physician I would tell him, but I haven't gained the courage.

"Yes. Your older brother." I push back the hair from his damp forehead.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple sharp against the skin on his neck. "I lied."

"What do you mean?"

"He wasn't killed in action."

I kneel at his bedside. My grip on his hand grows tighter as his gets weaker. There is something in his eyes that makes me wary of where the conversation is leading.

"How did he die?"

"There was a plot by the Dutch resistance." His eyes glaze over, cold as the first time I saw him. "There was an incident on a road where an SS General was shot and injured. In retaliation, they massacred of all the men in the nearby village and many other prisoners of the Gestapo. Hundreds."

The back of his hand is pressed into my breastbone. I know he can feel my heart thudding through my shirt. This isn't the first time I have heard of the merciless slaughter of innocent people by German invaders. I know it won't be the last.

"The soldiers lined them up and shot them like animals. But my brother and one other soldier-" Leon lets out a shaky breath. "My brother did not do as he was ordered. He laid down his weapon and joined the Dutch men on the other side. He was executed by his own men. I only learned of it because one of them wrote to tell me."

I suck in the stagnant air through my nose. As I run my trembling fingers through his hair, Leon's eyes drift close.

"You were right," I whisper. "He was very brave."

The clock strikes two o'clock. They will be here to take him into surgery in only a few minutes. My hand pauses at the crown of his head.

"Why did you lie? Why did you tell me he had been killed in action?"

"I was ashamed."

"Of him?"

"Of myself." His voice ripples with emotion. "Of my own cowardice."

"Leon-"

"Just hear me." A violent shiver cracks down his spine. "Please, Ruth. I only ask that you listen."

"I'm listening."

"I was eighteen when I got to the front in '42. Holland. I saw the trains for the first time. I turned away. I had no direct hand in the business. I felt I was exempt from what I knew to be wrong. I had never been in the Hitler Youth, since I was away at school in England, but I knew how to follow orders. The more action I saw, I reached a place where I wasn't fighting for a cause or a political leader, but for the men beside me. And there were good men in my company, most are dead now. In '43, I was in France. One day, I was on guard outside a train station where they... they were herding people into cattle cars. I knew it then, standing at the door to the depot and listening." Leon breathes deeply, his eyes open. "Their blood was on my hands. To stand back, to say nothing, to watch without action..."

"You were acting on orders."

"Orders?" His voice cracks. 

I rise on weak knees and sit down on the chair. My mind reels. I knew it was a weak excuse the minute it left my lips, especially after hearing about his brother's death.

"I did nothing. I stood and watched."

Rocking forward, I rest my head in my hands.

"The train left. And I stood there. I did nothing. I should have put myself in there with them like my brother stood in front of that firing squad."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask soggily. "I'm not a priest or-or a judge. I can't give you punishment or absolution."

"I'm not asking for it. I couldn't keep this from you. You had to know who I was."

"You were so young. You still are, Leon."

"There were young men and women on the trains. Children too. Many of them. Just because I wasn't an SS officer pulling a trigger, it doesn't make me innocent. Inaction can be as just violent as action."

I stand, bracing my hands on the small of my back. I pace towards the window.

"Perhaps it would have been better for me had I died on that road."

I cannot answer him.

The surgeon appears from behind the screen. I turn towards him, my arms crossed over my middle and shoulders hunched. The doctor draws his glasses down on his bulbous nose and peers at me.

"Have you told him?" His English is barely understandable in his heavy accent.

"No."

Leon quakes with fever. "She didn't have to, I guessed."

Two nurses bring a gurney and heave him up onto it. I stand by the screen, my eyes flitting anywhere but his face. Leon feebly grasps my arm. I cannot bear to not look into his eyes. He is a perfumed poison. I wonder if I will ever recover from this man.

"Will you be here after?" He asks, running a thumb over my wrist.

I jerk my head forward. He releases me and they wheel him away. I leave the hospital and hitch a ride back to the village.

∆∆∆

It is almost ten in the morning when I wake. My eyelids feel like sandpaper as I blink away the sleep. My dreams have been murky, like swimming through the disturbed silt of a stagnant pond. Trudging into the living room, I find Florence standing by the window.

"I received a letter this morning."

Her voice is strident as she tries to hold back tears.

"From who?" I ask, brushing the tangles of black hair from my raw face.

"My father has fallen ill. They do not believe he will survive the week." Her hand flutters to her shirt collar to straighten it.

"Florence..." I step towards her.

"No, please. I can't right now-"

I don't allow her to finish the sentence. I wrap my arms around her and she lets go. Eye makeup is smudged on her pale cheek bones as she pulls away.

"I am being sent home as soon as possible."

"Good." I nod firmly, gripping her shoulder. "This is good."

"If he dies, that will leave the family business to me. My mother cannot handle it. Her temperament is too fragile." Florence runs a hand over her face. "I will be running the ranch."

She paces towards the kitchen table. She rests against it, crossing her arms over her chest. I light a cigarette for her and bring it over.

"And the railway line." She snorts as I come up beside her. "So many lawyers to deal with and my mother's histrionics. I wish I had siblings. That would have made all this so much easier."

I give a weak smile, my eyes on my bare feet. "But I can't imagine any person more up to the task."

Florence takes a drag, her breath softening. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see."

"When do you leave?"

"Noon."

"I will bring you to your transport."

She hands me the cigarette and I draw in a breath of smoke.

"Will you tell Lieutenant Pawloski?" I ask then regret mentioning him.

A smile twinges on the corner of her red lips, but doesn't bloom. Florence's gaze swings from the floor to the window. A storm had gathered earlier, but it dissipated without a drop.

"No. It's not necessary."

I wonder after my own heart, if I should have left Leon as I did without a word. Perhaps both Florence and I are better off never knowing. It's safer that way.

"What happened with your German friend?"

I exhale audibly through my nose and return the cigarette to her.

"He was being brought into surgery. They had to take his leg that was injured in the car accident."

"That sounds familiar." 

I know she refers to Cal and I wince. I don't want to affiliate those two men with each other. Not after all I heard from Leon before his operation.

"Before he left for the operation, he told me..." I swallow and pace a few steps forward. "He told me some things that happened. During the war."

I cross my arms tightly across my chest and meet her direct stare, her eyes puffy from weeping.

"You know," she speaks slowly. "None of us are coming out of this clean."

"This is different."

"I gathered that. But Ruthie, we need to decide how to move forward without forgetting what has happened. We need to help one another do it. Our world has never seen anything like this before, not on this scale. You and I, those who remain, it's our obligation to survive the aftermath. Rising from the ashes won't be easy for any of us."

"I don't believe I can help him. I don't know if I want to. It's not my place to forgive him. I don't think he even wants forgiveness."

I have tasted hatred before, but it was nothing compared to the behemoth wrought by the Nazis. Looking at him as Leon was wheeled away, all I could see was the cold deadness that invaded his stare at times. I had once thought it was weariness from the carnage he'd experienced. Now I shudder to think its roots are much darker. I wonder if such things should be moved past, there is such a danger of them being forgotten.

"We all have our choices to make. Don't we?" Florence blows out a cloud of smoke and stumps the cigarette into an empty coffee cup on the table behind her.

∆∆∆

Florence reaches across me and closes the jeep door. She shakes her head with a weak smile. Despite the grief in her eyes and the tight lines around her mouth, her makeup is flawless. Her honeyed curls are tucked into a demure bun on the back of her head. Only the bone dry weariness in her dark brown gaze gives any clue of to her inner turmoil.

"I can bring myself the rest of the way," she insists.

"Your trunk should be delivered home by next week or so. At least that's what the head nurse at headquarters said when I picked up the jeep."

I am glad that she is returning home, heartsick for the sorrow that no doubt awaits her and a little befuddled about my own well being. I don't want to think what it will be like without her. It's strange to think that I once thought her not worth getting to know. Now I can't imagine life without my friend.

She leans forward and embraces me. I fight off a wave of tears. With a slow breath, I open my eyes and peer across the street. Through the bustle of the main drag, I spot a familiar figure. Richard Pawloski stands on the edge of the sidewalk, gawkily clutching his hat.

The lieutenant's mouth parts as though he is going to call out. However, he merely straightens his cap back onto his head, smoothing down his jacket with his palms. He walks away. She releases me from her hold, gripping my arms and biting her lip. I decide not to tell her about Pawloski.

"I'll write you as soon as I reach England," she promises, dragging her suitcase from the back seat.

My stomach lurches as she gets out of the jeep.

"Florence," I say with a tell-tale crack in my voice. "Your friendship... it has meant..."

I wet my lips, struggling against the pain in my throat. Everything I want to say sounds so trite. Reflecting on all we have experienced, words feel inadequate. She raises a hand, stepping backwards. She lets loose one of her rare, true smiles.

"I'm not dyin'," she chuckles. "I'm just going home."

I laugh, eyes drifting to the steering wheel. "I know. You're right."

"And you'll be visiting me in Tennessee when this is all over, hmm?" She lifts an eyebrow. "I'll be seeing you, Ruthie."

"I'll be seeing you." I meet her gaze once more with a half-smile.

Florence gives me a swift salute with a wink before striding towards the station. She breezes past a couple British servicemen. One of whom lets out an exaggerated wolf whistle.

"Go brew yourself a cup, Limey," she drones before disappearing into the depot.